


Grimm

by arrozconmangos



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fairy Tales, Gore, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 15:31:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arrozconmangos/pseuds/arrozconmangos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The hunter holding Stiles breathes hot and moist on his cheek. "You like a good fairy tale, don't you?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grimm

**Author's Note:**

> _This is, of course, based on the original version of Little Red Riding Hood. You don't need to know it to understand though, Stiles will explain. :) This could be read as slash or pre-slash, or friendship depending on your interpretation._

\---

They hold Stiles back as they do it.

One of the hunters, faceless, dirty hands tight around Stiles' arms, leans close to his ear and whispers, "Don't worry, little red. We'll protect you from the big, bad wolf."

Stiles grunts, jerks hard enough that he's certain he'll have finger-shaped bruises later.

Derek is just feet away, sprawled on the floor of what was probably the family room of his home. He's slow, drugged, eyes open, but unfocused, limbs stretching lazily along the floorboards.

There's two more hunters kneeling over him. One of them holds his shoulders while the other makes a quick motion with a sharp pair of scissors.

Stiles moans at the same time that Derek does, involuntarily. He ducks his head, wishing he could close his ears against the tearing sound of the scissors through the flesh of Derek's stomach, could un-hear the kicking scrape of Derek's shoes along the floor.

Derek whines through clenched teeth. He gasps when the hunter pulls at the flesh of his stomach. There is blood running down his sides to the floor.

Stiles wrenches his arms and gets nowhere. When the first stone is dropped into Derek's gaping wound, he feels it in his own gut, a heavy, sick weight in his stomach.

The hunter holding him breathes hot and moist on Stiles' cheek. "You like a good fairy tale, don't you?"

Its like a switch is flipped inside Stiles. He struggles like a mad man, opens his mouth and screams.

The hunter on the floor calmly places more stones in the open slash of Derek's stomach.

"You people are monsters," Stiles roars, in a voice he didn't know he had. "You're all sick. He's a _person_. He never hurt anybody."

"He's an animal," the hunter croons in Stiles' ear. "He's a danger to everyone. Even to you, Little Red."

Stiles manages to twist enough to spit at the man and kick his feet back into his shins. He doesn't recognize his own voice, low and mean.

"You're the animals. My dad is the sheriff. When this is done, you're going to learn what it means to be hunted."

Derek lets out a jittery moan, cutting him off. His arms are limp on the floor, hands twitching.

The hunter weaves a needle through the thin skin of his abdomen in long pulls, edging the ripped skin back together. At the end, he loops a tight knot in the black thread and cuts it off, pats the wound and laughs. "I think we're all done here, boys."

He stands up and admires his work, smiling down at the way Derek shivers on the floor.

He turns and lifts his chin at Stiles. "Leave him."

The hunter holding Stiles spins him around and runs his head into one of the burnt walls, lets him go so Stiles slides to the floor.

He slumps there, panting, heart like a jack hammer, listening to the clomping footsteps of the three men leaving the house. After a moment, a car engine starts and then fades away.

Stiles turns around, crawling on hands and knees across the floor. "Derek? Hey, man."

Derek is still trembling, breathing fast through his teeth.

Stiles hovers over him. "Are you...should I..." He falters. The wound looks like a cartoon, black stitches like railroad tracks across Derek's stomach. The skin is bloated and red, stretched over the rocks inside.

Stiles gets his phone out of his back pocket and holds it in his hand, fingers squeezing at the plastic. He's nauseous and dizzy, hot and cold, maybe concussed. He really wants to call his dad.

"Scott," Derek stutters between chattering teeth. "Deaton."

"Okay." Stiles nods. "Right." He fires a text off to Scott and then dials Deaton directly.

As the phone rings, Stiles finds Derek's hand on the floor and squeezes his fingers around his palm. There's blood everywhere. When Deaton answers, Stiles' isn't sure of what he says, but he hangs up when he understands that the doctor is on his way.

Derek's fingers are like ice and his lips are starting to look blue. Stiles shrugs out of his jacket and plaid over shirt, draping them across Derek's chest.

Derek's eyes have slipped shut, but his lips are moving soundlessly, like he's counting.

Stiles doesn't know what else to do, so he leans over Derek, presses his face into his shoulder and holds on.

\-----

Stiles sits on the floor in the corner of his room, in front of his small bookcase. There's only a few dozen books here and Stiles doesn't visit them often. He can't remember the last time he sat here, in this spot, staring at the spines of outdated encyclopedias, old Goosebumps books, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, the Hardy Boys, and, at the end of the shelf, a thick book of Grimm's Fairy Tales.

He pulls it out now, flipping through the stiff pages until he finds the tale of Little Red Riding Hood.

From downstairs, he hears the creak of floorboards under anxious feet. Isaac is pacing.

Stiles turns his head to the door, speaking in a low volume. "You can come up here, if you want."

The footsteps pause, and then continue, back and forth from the kitchen to the living room and back again. Of course, the whole reason Isaac is downstairs is because he couldn't stand to be up here. He'd taken as much of Derek's pain as he could stand and now there is nothing to do but wait.

Stiles turns further on the floor until he can see his bed, where they had laid Derek down. He's pale, but resting quietly now. The bucket beside the bed barely has any black vomit in it, compared to what Derek had been spewing all over the floor back in the Hale house.

Stiles turns a few more pages in the book, coming to the part at the end of the tale when the wolf, stomach full of rocks, gets up to chase after Red Riding Hood. In the story, the wolf topples over, rocks unbalancing him and injuring him so that he dies.

As a child, Stiles had always pictured the wolf's belly as something like warm bread dough, easily accommodating the grandmother, Little Red, and then, a pile of rocks. Now, every time he closes his eyes, he sees the ragged edges of Derek's stomach, feels the slippery warmth of his blood, everywhere.

As a child, he'd never thought of the wolf as a victim.

By the time Scott and Deaton had gotten to them, the incision on Derek's stomach had healed and he'd come out of his drugged haze, squirming and panting in Stiles' arms.

Stiles' had pulled him across the floor, away from a growing puddle of black, oily vomit. When Deaton put on a pair of gloves and snipped away the stitches, Stiles had to turn away. He'd squeezed his eyes shut, hunched over Derek, breathing into his ear. "It's okay. It's okay. It's going to be okay."

As Deaton removed each bloody rock, he dropped it on the floor with a sound like the chiming of a clock at midnight, final and ominous.

Stiles flips the book shut and shoves it to the back of the bookshelf. He crosses the room and sits lightly on the edge of the bed.

Derek's eyes slide open, but he says nothing, gaze steady. He looks like someone else, a broken stranger dressed in old, flannel, pajama pants and a threadbare t-shirt.

"Do you want some water?"

Derek nods, barely.

Stiles moves the cup to his lips, holds the straw as he drinks. Deaton had warned him off any solid foods for at least a day or two.

When he's done drinking, Derek lies back, staring blankly up at the ceiling.

Stiles doesn't know what else there is to do. He doesn't know what he's going to say to his dad when he gets home in a few hours, doesn't know how he can explain a half-dead werewolf in his bed, and another pacing around the downstairs, refusing to leave.

"When I first came back to town, the Argents broke the windows out of my car." Derek's voice is rough and breathy. "I was at the gas station on South Main." He doesn't say anymore, but he doesn't need to.

These hunters, people that think they are being great protectors, have consistently bestowed more violence and persecution on Derek and his family than they have ever returned. Publicly. Shamelessly.

Stiles feels a jolt of fear for Scott. Then, for Isaac, and even Erica and Boyd, wherever they are. It's not right to be hunted down simply for being what you are. Of course, Derek seems to have the worst luck of them all. His last name is Hale.

Stiles shifts onto the bed until he can lean back against the headboard, legs stretched out beside Derek. He reaches out, runs a hand over Derek's hair and lets his palm rest there, like his mom used to do when he was sick.

"I'm sorry. I know that probably doesn't mean much to you."

Derek turns his face into Stiles' leg, closes his eyes, and says nothing.

\---

**Author's Note:**

> _My first time posting here! Please let me know if I need to fix anything. :) Thanks for reading._


End file.
